Inside Agelaus's house.
Under the dim lantern light, two people sat.
Agealus said, "Forgive me for knowing who you really are, Paris. I've known since the beginning."
He felt he had to be honest with his son after the messenger from Troy's arrival.
Paris was not surprised by his father's words. "I already knew too, Father. But that won't change anything."
Agealus looked at his son in astonishment. "You... you're not angry with me?"
Paris shook his head slowly. "Why should I be angry? You saved my life. You've given me a real family all this time."
Agealus hugged Paris tightly. "Thank you, my child," he said, his eyes red as if holding back tears.
"It's okay, Father," Paris replied, returning Agelaus's embrace.
Time passed quickly. Paris, now twenty-five years old, armed with the modern knowledge of the CEO of XQO Holdings.
He began revolutionizing his village's economy. Paris introduced new livestock breeding methods, such as building comfortable pens, providing good feed, and more.
On the trade side, he created a new trade route that shortened journeys compared to the old ones.
He also introduced modern farming techniques to the villagers, which might seem foreign to them.
With the methods Paris taught, the name of the village on the slopes of Mount Ida spread throughout the land.
While the Ida mountain village grew more famous, another tale came from near Troy. Two figures stood casually on the peak of Mount Lyrnessus.
"Look at our enemies across the Aegean Sea," said the figure with bright orange right eye. "They always oppress, plunder treasures, and take whatever they can."
The figure with seven white tails nodded lightly. "You're right, Brother. We are victims of those greedy kings," he said, his left hand clenched tightly.
"Calm yourself, Lys," said the figure with sea-blue left eye. "Their power won't last long. When the time comes, we'll take their heads."
The enchanting eyes of the figure with seven tails now gazed calmly at his brother.
He released his momentary emotions. "I understand, Brother," he said.
The story returned to the slopes of Mount Ida. Pine trees grew slanted, as if forced to bow by the relentless north wind.
Wild grass and mountain flowers sprouted from rock crevices, stealing light from the cloudy sky.
An eagle soared overhead, flapping its wings above the ever-shifting sloping fields.
Strands of a young man's hair blended between light and shadow, like a twilight sky undecided between night and dawn.
Paris sat cross-legged before an olive tree, his hand gripping a worn shepherd's staff. His eyes closed, immersed in morning meditation, when an eerie silence enveloped the forest.
The birds stopped singing, and the air felt heavy.
He opened his eyes, alert, as a golden light from the olive tree formed the shape of a woman. Her white robe flowed like water, simple yet radiating undeniable majesty. A black cloth covered her eyes, but Paris felt her gaze piercing to his bones.
"Paris, son of Thalia," Themis's voice echoed, not in the air, but in Paris's mind, like whispers from ancient ages.
"I am Themis, guardian of justice, weigher of fates. You have been chosen."
Paris rose slowly, his right hand gripping the staff tighter.
"Chosen?" he asked, his sarcasm sharp as a blade. "Sorry, Aunt, but I'm not the type who likes being summoned by gods without a clear agenda. What do you want? And don't say it's just about justice, because your gods usually have ulterior motives."
In his mind, the CEO soul whispered, This smells like a trap. We've faced slyer negotiators in boardrooms, this is Olympus level.
Prince Paris soul chimed in, But if it's a call to save, we could be heroes!
The Alexander soul grumbled, Heroes? I just want our sheep safe and Thalia cooking soup again tonight.
Themis didn't move, but her faint smile was cold, like marble carved by time.
"You speak with the boldness of a man who has seen another world, Paris. But know this: the nine dragons from your past now rise in this world, hidden as artifacts, powers, or enemies. Three of them you must find: one in the temple abandoned by a forgotten god, one in the sea that swallows ships, and one in the hand of an enemy you do not yet recognize."
Paris chuckled softly, but his eyes sharpened.
"Nine dragons? You know my past? Fine, let's say I believe this tale of dragons and artifacts. Why me? I'm just a shepherd who happens to have a brain sharper than my sheep. Send Zeus or Apollo to fetch those items. They love meddling with mortals."
But deep in his soul, the CEO laughed heartily. Nine dragons? Every Indonesian knows what that is!? And they're not gods!?
He knew but letting Themis continue her nonsense was more amusing.
The air around the cave cooled, and the olive tree's leaves trembled faintly. Themis raised her hand, and the wind seemed to halt entirely.
"You are no mere shepherd, Paris."
Paris stepped back, his staff tapping the ground.
"Give me a reason to trust you, Themis. Is this just another god's game to exploit humans?"
In his mind, the CEO soul said, She's hiding something. We need assurances, or we bolt.
Prince Paris soul added, But if it's about Troy, we can't ignore her.
The Alexander soul complained, Why can't we just live in peace? Thalia will worry if I go too far.
Themis lowered her hand, and the pressure in the air eased.
"You are wise to be suspicious, Paris. But know that justice is impartial, and I am not here to deceive. The nine dragons, in new forms, threaten this world's balance. If you fail, your village, Thalia, Agealus, all will perish. I offer three gifts to aid your quest."
Three flashes of light appeared in the air:
A silver light coiled around Paris's body, granting divine protection that made him feel stronger, yet not invincible.
A golden light touched his eyes, like lifting a veil, giving him sight to pierce divine illusions.
A blue light flowed to his throat, as if unlocking his tongue for all languages.
The air around Paris vibrated softly as Themis raised her hand, her fingers dancing over invisible threads.
From Paris's body, three lights burst forth, silver, blue, and gold, circling in the air before merging, forming the sharp silhouette of a sword that slowly solidified into gleaming metal.
The wind ceased. The sky hung still for a moment.
"This sword..." Themis's voice echoed softly yet irrefutably, "is born from your own soul."
The sword's light now hovered before Paris, sharp, long, and glowing like sunlight through morning mist.
"Its name is Justice," the Titan continued, her gaze deep. "A weapon as strong as the truth in your hand."
Paris swallowed. "If I go astray...?"
Themis smiled faintly.
"It will know. And you will feel it."
Paris grasped the sword, looking at Themis with narrowed eyes.
"Nice gift, but I'm not a child who can be bought with presents. What's in it for me? And what's the guarantee my village is safe if I go? I won't leave Thalia and Agelaus for some unclear god's game."
Themis nodded, the black cloth over her eyes seeming to radiate eternal wisdom.
"Justice demands sacrifice, Paris. I guarantee your village will be protected by my blessing as long as you undertake this mission. But you must move within seven days. If not, the shadows of the nine dragons will find you first."
Paris paused, his three souls wrestling.
The CEO soul calculated risks. This is like a high-risk investment. We could lose big, but the payoff might be worth it.
Prince Paris soul whispered, This is our chance to prove ourselves as a prince of Troy.
The Alexander soul sighed, But if we fail, Thalia's heart breaks, and we die too.
Finally, Paris met Themis's gaze, his voice firm but laced with doubt.
"I'm not saying I trust you, Themis. But if this is about protecting my village, I'll consider it. Give me seven days to prepare and say goodbye. And if this is a trap, you'll regret disturbing the shepherd from Mount Ida."
Themis smiled thinly, her aura like a caressing yet threatening wind.
"Seven days, Paris. But remember: fate does not wait, and the nine dragons will not rest. Seek the abandoned temple to the north, where the shadows of gods still whisper. There your journey begins."
The golden light faded, and Themis vanished, leaving the scent of olive blossoms and a suffocating silence.
Paris gripped his shepherd's staff, his heart pounding.
"Alright," he muttered, "but if this is just god drama, I'll find a way to win on my own."
In his mind, the CEO soul said, We need a backup plan. This goddess can't be trusted.
Prince Paris soul replied, But this is our fate. Prince of Troy....
The Alexander soul complained softly, I just want to go home to Mother and live quietly.
Silence.
Paris collapsed onto the mossy ground, his legs weak as if the world's weight pressed on his shoulders. His breath came heavy, eyes vacant staring into the forest's darkness.
For the first time since reincarnation, he truly felt fear, not of death, but of failure, of disappointing those who trusted him.
In the distance, mist rolled among the trees. Paris closed his eyes, hearing the echo of his own promise. In seven days, his old life would end.
And he didn't yet know what version of himself would return.
Thin mist descended from the peaks as Paris stepped down the rocky path. Each step felt heavy, as if the earth itself was reluctant to release him.
A week, that was all the time he had to tidy his life before the world demanded he leave.
In the village, life went on as usual: children herding sheep to the pastures, women hanging laundry, thin smoke rising from house hearths.
But in Paris's eyes, everything seemed more fragile, more fleeting. He knew if he failed, all those laughs could vanish forever.
His days filled quickly with affairs. With the clear mind of the CEO soul within him, he drafted detailed plans.
The village youths gathered in the wooden hall, and Paris trained them not just in wielding spears, but in quick thinking, reading danger signs, and sounding horns if enemies approached.
For the farmlands, he wrote precise instructions on wooden tablets: when to plant barley, when to harvest wheat, how to manage irrigation if rain didn't come. He even signed contracts with valley merchants, ensuring the village's harvest would continue flowing to markets, even without him to negotiate prices.
"With this," he said to the white-haired village elder, "you won't just survive, you'll thrive."
The elder looked at him, brow furrowed.
"Are you sure about this journey, Paris? The village needs you. You are our pillar."
Paris held his breath. There was pain in every word spoken.
"The village will be fine. I've trained you. But if I don't go, there won't be a village to return to."
His voice was soft, but steady, like a sword tempered in fire.
At home, Agelaus waited. The old man sat in a wooden chair, his face stern yet eyes glistening.
"I knew this day would come," he said, voice raspy like dry wood. "From the first time I saw you, I knew you were destined for something greater, my child."
Paris knelt before him, hands gripping his adoptive father's arm.
"Father... everything good in me comes from you and Mother."
Agelaus smiled faintly, though lines of sorrow etched his face clearly.
"And everything you want is your own choice. Make us proud, Paris."
Thalia, his mother, placed a warm hand on Paris's shoulder. Her eyes didn't cry, she was too strong for that, but her gentle smile cut deeper.
"Always remember you are our son. No matter what title or power you gain later. Treat others with the same kindness you learned here. And always..." her voice trembled, "remember to come home."
The word "home" stabbed Paris's chest sharper than any sword.
At the forest's edge, Oenone waited. The nymph's black hair fell over her face as she bowed her head, then lifted it with eyes flashing.
"Alexander... I can help you. My magic, my knowledge of the divine world, you don't have to bear this alone."
Paris gazed at her long, hearing his own soul's soft whisper, wanting so badly to say yes. But he knew. He took her hand.
"I know, Oenone. But this journey... it's about me finding who I truly am. I can't do it if someone else is protecting me."
Tears glistened in Oenone's eyes. "Then promise me. Promise you'll be careful. And... you'll return to me."
Paris swallowed the bitterness in his throat.
"I promise I'll try both, Oenone."
He knew "try" wasn't a guarantee. But it was the only honest promise he could give.
The sacred forest was silent except for the faint rustle of leaves, as if the trees themselves held their breath. Moonlight dripped through branches, bathing the ground in pale silver. In the center of a mossy stone circle, Paris knelt. His body weakened by three days of fasting, yet his eyes clear, reflecting a small ember that still burned within him.
The spiritual guides sat around him, faces hidden behind wooden masks adorned with sun and moon symbols. In unison, they chanted ancient mantras. The sound was low, deep, vibrating, making the forest air feel heavy.
Nature's spirits answered: wind swirled, fireflies danced, and far above, an owl screeched a greeting. Paris felt himself cradled, embraced, and tested by the unseen world.
Water from the sacred spring was poured over his head. The cold pierced his bones, yet it cleansed.
"Now you are empty," one guide said, voice raspy like grinding stones.
"Empty so light can enter, and darkness can be known."
After the purification ritual, the following days filled with preparations. Under the elders' guidance, Paris endured physical training: running through forest mist, slashing bamboo stalks with a wooden sword, holding breath in river currents.
His body burned, lungs seeming to explode, but every drop of sweat was a vow that he wouldn't collapse midway.
Meditation followed. Paris sat still for hours under an ancient banyan tree, eyes closed, listening to the earth's heartbeat.
Occasionally, foreign whispers tried to seep into his mind, promises of power, visions of downfall, but he learned to let them pass without clinging.
"Hold the earth," the elder whispered, placing a handful of mountain soil in his palm. "This is your home. When the sky tries to steal your thoughts, remember this scent."
Slowly, gear for his journey gathered. His shepherd's staff, once a simple stick for herding livestock, was blessed with fire and water, re-carved with sun symbols.
Now, it emitted a soft glow, a weapon and pathfinder in one. A cloak was given to him, woven from threads dyed with seasons: warm in snow, cool in heat, always adapting to the world's changes.
There was also a small black stone ring fitted on his finger, a memory ring.
Finally, a small pouch of soil from his birth mountain. He inhaled its scent, damp, fresh, familiar. A symbol that he always carried home with him.
The night before departure, Paris's sleep filled with visions. He saw endless sands, desert storms swallowing caravans.
Ice-capped mountains loomed, where strange voices called from ravines. Golden cities gleamed, but massive shadows cast dark veils over them. And amid it all, faint faces awaited, enemies, allies, or both, he didn't know.
He awoke before dawn, body still trembling from the dream. No fear, only awareness that this path was heavier than imagined.
Paris stood, grasping his staff. The forest silent, thick mist cloaking the way, but he knew the first step was before him.
As the sun pierced the treeline, he stepped eastward, that morning marking the start of the greatest adventure of his life.
Dawn had just crept over the eastern horizon, thin mist still hanging low over the thatched roofs.
The village square was filled with people, though the rooster had crowed only recently. No one wanted to miss this event: Paris's departure, the village son now embarking on a path far greater than himself.
The villagers stood in a tight circle, faces illuminated by the first morning light.
Paris looked at them one by one, realizing how he had been part of every life there, helping a mother lift a water jug, guiding a stray sheep, laughing at simple harvest jokes. Now all those memories piled into a heavy weight in his chest.
Shepherd children stepped forward one by one, tiny hands clutching simple gifts: a luck stone they believed repelled bad fate, a wooden carving of a sheep, a rough charcoal drawing.
The gifts were small, yet to Paris, more precious than gold. He bowed, accepting each with a bittersweet smile, then squeezed their tiny fingers as if promising to return.
The village elder advanced, his old wooden staff tapping the rocky ground. His voice trembled but carried authority, reciting an ancient prayer passed down through generations. The words weren't mere protection mantras; each syllable summoned ancestral spirits to guard Paris's steps. Silence enveloped the square. Even the wind seemed to pause and listen.
Agelaus and Thalia waited at the circle's edge. Paris approached, and no words passed between them. Only a tight embrace, tearful eyes, and choked breaths. A simple love he would carry his whole life.
As he began walking away from the village, mist swallowed his feet. From behind the trees, Oenone appeared, her face pale yet resolute. Without many words, she pinned a silver locket around Paris's neck.
"It will shine when danger threatens you," she whispered, her fingers trembling as they touched his warm skin.
Paris didn't look back as he passed the village boundary. Not because his heart was cold, but because one glance would shatter his resolve. Morning mist cloaked him slowly, swallowing his figure from the sight of those who loved him.
In the silence that followed, only his inner self spoke. The three voices within him, the prince, the merchant, and the lover, finally aligned in one promise.
"I will return. But when I return, I won't be the same Paris. I will come home as a man worthy of all the love you've ever given me."
He walked onward, unaware of what awaited.
To be continued.